A rant. Online here, because the Publisher has rules on swearing in the magazine. I appreciate it’s not good form to tar everyone with the same brush but in the case of caravanners I am going to do exactly that. They are cretins. All of them. Here’s why;

They park their Buccaneer Rectal Explorer for 50 weeks of the year outside their house, blocking the light to their home like a plastic Leylandii. Their Mumsy 4×4, bought to tow the wretched thing, sits on the road taking up parking space. The streets are blighted with this sort of thing. You should need planning permission to park one outside your house, and I should be in charge of granting permission, and I won’t because I will have rammed the application up your arse together with a dozen brochures for better holidays you should take rather than caravanning. And some stinging nettles for good measure. New paragraph? OK, new paragraph.

The other two weeks of the year are spent on the road. The phrase ‘on the road’ may conjure up images of Route 66 roadtrips in a Mustang, or hauling timber across frozen Canada in a Mac truck, but in this instance it’s a tortoise-slow crawl from your sh*t home in the Midlands, forcing HGVs to overtake and reducing the entire road network to one huge 55mph-at-best grind. Those brave enough to attempt to drag their tupperware hovel faster than this invariably lack the skill to keep the whole shebang on it’s wheels and overturn at the same spot as they all bloody do on the M5 south of Brum. The sensation of driving over their plastic crockery, Chinese telly, bri-nylon seats, miserable Edinburgh woollen mill wardrobe and other domestic detritus is scant reward for the motorist passing the caravanners car crash as they inevitably get stuck behind another one a few yards up the road, tank-slapping away to a campsite 100 miles away that they’ll reach sometime this month if they’re lucky. Annnnd breathe.

And the campsite. Jammed in cheek-by-jowl, barely a foot between the caravans, insufficient space for Mrs fat-arse Caravanner to squeeze down and change the gas bottle as there’s no hot water and some some reason there’s a turd in the shower due to some plumbing mishap at the factory in Hull that nailed this damp, wonky monstrosity together for the bargain price of £29999. “Think of all the free weekends away!” they said, as the grey little man scrawled his name on the paperwork and tried to put thoughts of his brother with his pretty new wife spending a fortnight humping away in their gite in the South of France, pausing only to open another bottle of cold €2 a bottle vino, the lucky, lucky b*stard. Washing up in cold water after a meal of corned beef and tinned supermarket lager, the maths won’t go away… Thirty grand, worth a tenth after a few years, that’s like a world cruise a year in depreciation instead of the view of another caravan barely inches away, in Weston-Super-Mare. He’d suggested a holiday home swap to his brother but he didn’t seem keen. Swearing? Let’s have some swearing.

The sleepless nights… counting down the days before you can f*ck off back home, pretending to the neighbours that you’ve been to Italy, or Israel or Iceland or ANYWHERE other than a sh*t English campsite, as you lie there, sweating under cheap sheets, listening to your neighbouring campers fart and snore. The f*cking rigmarole of it all – struts to keep the thing level, electric hook-ups, water tanks, and those ridiculous nose-bra, wind-deflector things that the fat wife could passably wear as a dress to the ghastly on-site entertainment venue. There, shrieking tw*ts play bingo, obese club singers swig pints of lager from plastic glasses and the same f*cking zombie faces of other dead-headed, lacklustre, unadventurous, washed-out cretins ‘enjoying’ their caravanning holiday. There is no escape. And the pitch fees, the same as a night in a hotel where there’s a minibar, and air-conditioning, and free parking and places you can walk without being collared by the boring gits in the Eldiss Wetdream VIP next door who were arguing all night and slept in separate rooms in their ‘van, although separate means 1.5mm of plastic wall, so thin you can feel farts though them. ‘But young people go caravanning now! It’s become trendy! Look at an Airstream!” they say in their defence, although young means menopausal, the word ‘trendy’ makes normal people cringe and Airstreams only look good against a desert backdrop, not a drizzly Lincolnshire bog with the lights off as they attract the midges. I’m not done, hang on…

And departure day. Leaving a day earlier because the missus is worried about the cat and the weather forecast is rain, again. Shunting your Faux-4×4 into place to hook up to the ‘van, as a fellow tedious cretin, bored, wanders over for a chat. I say chat, it’ll be a loud monologue about why he chose the Evoque as a tow car due to doing 3mpg more than his previous tow car, pointing at it from a distance happily, but not as happy as his neighbours back in the Midlands who can finally park outside their own house while he’s away. The drive home – why is the traffic so heavy? The inevitable crash on the M5 with someone’s crap life strewn across all three carriageways as the highways agency man kicks a travel kettle into the verge. The terrified look on their faces as they approach an island, or a bridge, or a service station carpark where Romanian truckers tell them to f*ck off and park elsewhere instead of across three truck bays while they go for sausage rolls and a pestering by the AA man who can smell an easy sale to a halfwit “breakdown cover, Sir?”. The useless lane discipline, the strap-on mirrors, the cruise control set low as the nice man from Arnold Clarke said the Vauxhall Poundland X is best on fuel at 35mph, although the EML has been on since the M40 junction for some reason and they’d had to fill up 9 f*cking times, accidentally wedging the ‘van under the height restriction at Charnock Cockstring Services when paying £1.87 a litre. Oh the freedom of caravanning! Then the shuffling backwards and forwards on the driveway at home, making sure that they can’t see a bloody thing out of their front window, and looking forward to the three days of scrubbing and polishing the thing in preparation of it’s next outing in a year’s time. Caravanners are cretins.

End of rant. Breathe deeply. Drink that nice drink Dr Chakraborty recommended for your temper. Think of kittens. Aaaaaah.

 

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One Response

  1. Peter Taylor

    Well Rich I think that pretty well sums up what you think about caravans why didn’t you go the whole hog and tell us what you really think about towing a caravan you forgot to mention that towing the bloody thing is like having a parachute behind and doubles your fuel consumption. Happy camping

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